Gamma Rays
by Freaking Cage
Summary: Ulquiorra thinks about 'that woman' and her purpose in Las Noches. Oneshot, R


Disclaimer: Ha, I wish.

Ulquiorra was minding his own business.

He was very good at this; staying out of his master's way. He accepted everything Aizen-sama did, and helped him in every way he could. It was his duty, his mission, his responsibility. After all, the man had given him life, life beyond that of merely eating everything in his sight, for the sake of surviving for just one more day. Aizen-sama was his savior. He'd given Ulquiorra the chance to live, and even gave them the sun, fake though it was.

Most trash didn't understand this. They completely disregarded their master after everything the man had done. He'd given them safety, and most arrancar only obeyed him out of mere fear of the man. None of them understood just what Aizen-sama had done for them. If anyone were to ask Ulquiorra what he thought, he would say that Aizen-sama should just throw them back into the shadows from whence they came, assuming of course Ulquiorra wanted to answer.

Ulquiorra grabbed hold of the food tray and pushed it down the white endless halls of Las Noches. The cold of the metal bar on the cart was warm to the Espada's touch. He was dead, and he was reminded of this constantly: the hole in his neck, his forever frozen hands, the massive bone structure that covered half of his skull. It wasn't often that Ulquiorra looked in the mirror, but when he did he would momentarily stop to look at his reflection. His pale skin could blend into the halls of the palace easily and his black hair matched perfectly with the lines of his coat. The one thing he could never seem to get over were his own eyes. Catlike and ridiculously green, the emerald orbs could pierce not only his companion Espada and Arrancar but himself as well.

It was strange, not understanding a part of yourself. The one thing that made him truly beautiful was foreign to him, completely out of place on his morbid and simple existence. His only purpose was to serve Aizen-sama, what use did he have for this beauty? He was made to fight. So Ulquiorra made use of his eyes. He sharpened their beautiful color to be like small daggers, stab through his enemies with one glare. The out of place feature becoming one with his purpose, and he was once again a perfect piece.

But something else was out of place now. That woman. Ulquiorra knew her purpose; she was to remain here at Las Noches and help Aizen-sama with his cause. She was to heal the wounded and turn back time to when the hogyouku was at its peak. What she wasn't supposed to do was cause his stomach to churn strangely. She wasn't supposed to make Ulquiorra wonder about his place and he wasn't supposed to think about her reasoning.

Ulquiorra began walking at a faster pace. His thatched sandals tapped lightly against the cold marble floor, soft, but different from his usual pace. He paused briefly and resumed his normal pace.

It was that. Just thinking of her confused him. It made him do things differently than he normally would. She put him on edge, she made him think, she made him doubt. Were all humans like this? Ulquiorra wondered. Her friend, that piece of trash shinigami, he wouldn't make it to her, yet she still believed. He was going against more than one hundred foes, each stronger than the next and he wouldn't survive. So why did she believe in him? How could she think that his beginner's luck would get him any farther than a few turns in the catacombs of Las Noches?

Aizen-sama would crush him. He would kill the boy and the woman would stay here for the rest of her human days, helping Aizen-sama in his quest for taking over the throne of heaven. It didn't matter what she believed, it didn't matter that she had faith, Ulquiorra told himself. Her friends would fail, it was merely a fact. Ulquiorra approached her door, and the cart stopped just past the doorframe. He waited, silently listening to the goings on inside the room. He heard nothing save for some movement on the woman's part. With the grace of a practiced assassin Ulquiorra opened the door. The door gave way slowly, and the small slit grew to give Ulquiorra the image of the woman kneeling by her window. Ulquiorra's stoic expression almost changed. What was she doing? He wondered to himself. He opened the door further and completely exposed the woman and her actions. She knelt on the ground and had her head down, and her hands were curiously clutched together. Ulquiorra heard her mutter and whisper beneath her breath. A small whimper broke from her and her head went down a little lower. A sniffle was heard and Ulquiorra entered the room, leaving the forgotten cart in the hallway. The sniffles multiplied as he came closer and suddenly, when he was no more than a few steps from her, a small sob emitted from her throat.

Ulquiorra stopped. What could she be crying about? What was this curious behavior? Ulquiorra shifted his stance louder than necessary, making known his presence to the young girl that knelt beneath the window. Her head perked up in shock and she turned around quickly, meeting Ulquiorra's piecing emeralds with wet cloudy eyes. Her eyes were darker than normal, a stormy gray compared to the normal wide silver colored ones. Tears slid down her cheeks and she scrubbed at them harshly, as if doing so would take back her foolish action.

"Woman," Ulquiorra's voice sliced through the previous semi-silence. He cut through the tension as his deep smooth voice perforated her solitude. "What are you doing?"

She looked down, seemingly ashamed, but then with some thought or other looked at Ulquiorra sharply. Her eyes had nearly cleared, almost looking blue. Determination crossed her face for some reason Ulquiorra would never understand.

"I'm praying." She voiced out, trachea quivering slightly.

"Why?" he asked. Another question he wanted answered, why did he seem to care?

"For my friends. It's the only thing I can do for them now."

There were a hundred responses Ulquiorra could have given her. He could have told her what he thought, that it was useless and they were going to die. They would fail, miserably, and no amount of praying on her part would ever change that.

He could say it, he should say it, but he didn't. He walked back into the hallway and brought the cart into her room.

"Here's your meal. I'll be back in one hour."

"...Thank you." Was her reply, but Ulquiorra had already left. He shut the door but didn't let go of the handle. He listened intently, concentrating on every movement she made. She was still for a moment. Then shuffling was heard, and the previous muttering that Ulquiorra had interrupted resumed its pace. His hand on the doorknob tightened. When he heard another small sob exude from her equally small frame, Ulquiorra found himself for the first time in his existence as a dead man, wishing for the warmth he lacked.

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Author's Note: This is kind of for my friend, who loves this pairing. Of course she'll have to find it on her own, mwahaha, because I'm a little embarrassed about it. I hope it was good. R&R, and constructive criticism is welcome. The title is kind of symbolic...if you think about it... :3

Merry Christmas!! And God Bless you


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